


ache

by sinchronicity



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Endgame Richie/Eddie don't worry, Fix-It, Gay Richie Tozier, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Richie Tozier's 27 Years
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-25
Updated: 2019-09-25
Packaged: 2020-10-21 17:21:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20697221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinchronicity/pseuds/sinchronicity
Summary: The late summer light slanted over the group of teenagers, bathing them in the glow of the setting sun, and Richie Tozier was not looking at Eddie Kaspbrak.There's plenty that Richie wants to remember, and there's plenty that he wants to forget. That's life, right?(27 years is a long time.)





	ache

**Author's Note:**

> Shout-out to [Fluffifullness](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fluffifullness), who made me watch the homophobic clown movie in the first place. 
> 
> (Content warnings: internalized homophobia + an unpleasant sexual encounter that is influenced by those feelings + generalized Richie-induced emetophobia warning)

_I. things that you long to remember_

The late summer light slanted over the group of teenagers, bathing them in the glow of the setting sun, and Richie Tozier was not looking at Eddie Kaspbrak. 

He wasn’t because obviously he wasn’t. _ Duh_. Why would he be doing that? Of course, Eddie was a friend, one of the coveted (only by each other, but coveted all the same — ) Loser’s Club, and so yeah, they saw each other basically every day. Nothing special about that.

But if Richie was looking at Eddie,_ specifically _ at Eddie, then that would be special, and it would be strange.

So, you know, it was a good thing that Richie wasn’t doing that. 

Eddie was a good guy. He was super-fucking-obnoxious, and his constant worrying about everything under the sun was annoying, but, like, still — a nice guy. He could be pretty damn funny, too. He was someone Richie could be friends with for a very long time. 

There had been a moment at the quarry, when all of the boys had looked at Bev, and at her body. It felt voyeuristic and discomfiting, but not so uncomfortable as when he’d turned his gaze to Eddie, to his friend’s skinny pale stomach.

Richie had looked away from him. He wasn’t — he wouldn’t have stared. God, whatta _ creep —_ what would Eddie have thought if he knew? He never would know, though. That made it almost okay.

One night, when his parents were asleep, Richie crept out into the living room, where their unsteady bookshelf stood in one corner. He pulled the old red-bound dictionary from the shelf and unfolded it on the kitchen counter. He read the definition of “homosexual”, and it didn’t seem so bad, except for how it did. 

But that wasn’t what he was, of course. He didn’t really even know why he looked at it at all. 

The stupid fucking clown knew.

That might’ve been the worst part of the whole situation. His friends could never know — _Eddie _ could never know — but the goddamn mother-fucking _ evil clown _ knew. 

Might as well just _ tell _ Bowers. Then at least some mortal creature would know, and he wouldn’t be stuck alone with his horrible-ugly thoughts.

Eddie, though, Eddie’s dumb cute face and his wild eyes when he laughed at Richie’s jokes and/or misfortunes. Eddie was a friend and Richie didn’t _ need _ anything other than that, even if he did _ want _ it. Sometimes they’d be walking together to the clubhouse, and the light would filter through the trees just right to paint Eddie’s hair into a crown and Richie was kinda maybe starting to see the appeal of romance. His hands would itch so much with their desire to reach out and touch that he would have to flex and clench them, then hide them in his pockets or mess with his glasses before anyone saw. 

The moments where touching was okay were a Godsend, were the best; one afternoon with his hand on Eddie’s head, ruffling his hair and saying some dumb shit about his mom until Eddie started howling like a trod-on cat, “Get _ off _ Trashmouth, you dirty motherfucker!” and Richie had laughed so much that Eddie had sprung off the clubhouse hammock, still yowling, and wrestled him to the ground.

For weeks that was all he could think about; Eddie clutching him by the wrists and Eddie’s eyes blazing, and Eddie’s body on top of him until he rolled off in disgust. Eddie had cheered and laughed in his triumphant victory, and Richie just lay there in the dirt and grinned, taking it all in. It was so much; it was overwhelming. He knew he’d never forget it.

_II. things that you long to forget_

Richie Tozier was sitting in a bar in New York City, the city that never slept, or whatever — and he was half-bored, half-unfocused. A coworker (Mark, maybe? Damn, it was definitely an asshole move to not even know the dude’s name —) had bought everyone drinks and now the table of comedians and wannabe comedians (ha, wasn’t that every-fucking-one?) was drinking and laughing and flirting, and Richie mostly just wanted to leave.

He couldn’t go home because New York wasn’t home (L.A. wasn’t really home either, but let’s not think about that, Richie-my-man —) but he could go back to his hotel room at least. He was just so damn _ done_. Everyone already knew how this night’s story would end; Richie would drink and flirt and do some funny voices and the women at the table would laugh or they wouldn’t — and Richie would slink back to his room after closing and he would be so exhausted that he’d fall asleep immediately, which was a blessing, because then he wouldn’t have to think about it.

The routine was more tired than the jokes he wasn’t writing. _ Let’s just skip over all of it —_ but Richie didn’t say that. Instead he leaned forward, drink gripped tightly in his hand, and said, “Now, any old schmuck can do celebrity impressions, but did you know I can imitate anyone within just moments of meeting them?”

The woman across from him raised an eyebrow, and her dark eyes were kind, curious. Anna — her name was Anna, he was pretty sure.

“No you can’t!” She said, easy, falling into the set up.

“No you can’t!” Richie said, eyebrow raised and voice pitched up, and his grin at Anna’s laugh was nearly genuine. If you were going to play the game, you could at least be_ good _at it. 

It wasn’t something planned.

It was important to remind himself of that. He went to that bar on that particular night, but it wasn’t like he was expecting anything to actually happen, not really.

(Nothing could happen because things like that didn’t happen to him. Things like that occurred to different people who weren’t Richie Tozier and that’s — that’s the way it _ was_.)

But it, uh, was. _ Occurring, _that is. 

“Man! I can’t believe it! You’re that comedian, right?” The man in front of him said.

“Yeah,” said Richie. “That’s me. You’ve seen me, uh, on TV.” He couldn’t remember how many drinks he’d had. Which was probably not a good sign. 

“Tozier, right?”

“Richie,” he said. His body didn’t feel like it was actually experiencing any of this. Just his stupid head. “Richie Tozier. And you are?” 

“Jason,” the man said, or at least it sounded like he said Jason. Richie was having a hard time paying attention. Everything was loud; the bartender, the other patrons of the bar, the TVs droning on in the background, the fucking _ jukebox —_ might as well just have a fucking arcade in the other room, add too-loud fighting music to the chaos of it all. 

“Hey, _ Richie_,” Jason said. “You paying attention?”

“‘Course,” he said. “You say something important?”

“This place is too loud,” Jason said, which was the first words he’d uttered that were of any fucking value. “Let’s go outside.” 

Richie downed the rest of his drink in one gulp. He barely felt it, which was...bad, maybe? He didn’t care so much, though, in the moment. 

When they were outside, Jason grabbed him by the shoulders. Richie kind of wanted to flee the scene and change his name, but he didn’t. He let it happen. When Jason leaned in and kissed him, it wasn’t even a surprise. 

Jason’s mouth tasted like vodka. Which made sense, obviously; they were at a bar, and Richie vaguely recalled having seen him do shots. Presumably, Richie’s mouth tasted of bourbon. Jason’s mouth was also hot and sticky, and his nose hit uncomfortably against Richie’s. Richie tried to shift them, but Jason was pressing against him so hard he could barely move, barely breathe.

Jason’s hand shifted from his shoulder to his collarbone. Richie had his back up against the wall, and the brick was driving into his shoulder, sending pinpricks of pain up his body. 

Jason opened his mouth against him. At least that meant a gasping moment of fresh air, but Richie didn’t know what to do with his tongue. And his teeth seemed kind of in the way, too.

Jason pulled back an inch or two and laughed into him, his breath coming out in little puffs on Richie’s cheeks. 

“Not a great kisser, are you, Tozier?” His thumb dug into the soft flesh of Richie’s neck. “That’s okay, there’s plenty more to it.” What _ it _was barely even needed to be implied. The hand that wasn’t on his neck dropped to Richie’s upper thigh. Richie gasped, his body sending off alarm klaxons at every second of sensation, of touch.

“What’s that?” Jason said, voice dropping into tipsy coyness. “You say something, Tozier?” His hand slipped up towards Richie’s belt, dipping underneath the top of his jeans, under his briefs and touching the curve of his body. Richie’s blood was pounding in his ears and he knew he’d soon be unable to hear or feel a single damn thing over his own panic, which was rising, rising, cresting like waves. 

But Richie didn’t say anything; he couldn’t; his brain was too busy trying to process everything around him. Jason’s face was stubble-pricked like Richie’s own, but Richie had never felt anything like that before so the press of Jason’s face against his chin was almost as distracting as Jason’s hand on his ass which he knew was a totally fucked up comparison but, _ Oh God_, it was definitely happening anyway —

Jason was pressing into him. It was — oh God it was — it felt like nothing and everything and it definitely wasn’t _ sexy _, Jesus, how could it be —

Jason tried to dig his finger in which fucking _ hurt _and, without even meaning to, Richie staggered back away from him so fast that Jason had no chance but to pull his hand away. 

“What the fuck, Tozier?” he said, in the tone of some — fucking _childish_ denial — while Richie’s mind was shorting out at the stimulus and he was trying really, _ really _hard not to throw up. He staggered to the side, and his head was spinning.

“Rich?” His manager said, suddenly emerging from the darkness, and Oh God, right, that guy was here too. He was the one who brought him to this bar, maybe? Because — all his friends, they didn’t go to places like this. Just Richie. 

His manager extended a hand to help him up and Richie took it, even though he didn’t remember falling over, or being on the ground. 

“You’re good, Richie, you’re good,” his manager kept saying in a tone that totally wasn’t worried at all. Jason was making noises behind them, but Richie couldn’t hear what he was saying over the rushing in his ears. Eventually they made it to an open street, where the car was parked, and it was peaceful without the trashy music and the loud voices and the smell of sweaty bodies; and yet — before he could climb into the car that wasn’t his, Richie had to double over in the grass and lose his dinner. The disgusting scent of it overwhelmed the smell of Jason’s shitty cologne and also overwhelmed the terrible way Richie felt absolutely-fucking-undone by the sensation of Jason’s mouth on his.

_Great. Perfect._ Richie wasn’t sure why he’d ever thought it would be any different. 

“Rich?” his manager was saying again, still all worried. Richie let himself take a moment, still hunched over, to breathe. He was never going to be able to let this one go, was he? He had waited to be touched for so long. He saw now that it was a mistake; it was all a horrible fucking mistake. 

He’d always known that. He couldn’t remember where or how or why he’d learned that, but it was always a _mistake_, to think he could — God, what? Be _ normal _ and well-adjusted? Not _ Trashmouth_. Not Richie Tozier. 

Jesus. Why even try?

(He had tried because — against all odds — he _ had _ still wanted it.) 

(It wasn’t that there was something missing from his life — anyone who knew him would joke that he’d never been the marrying type, and certainly it was true — but was it so absurd to want something else? Something more?)

_ III. what you are seeing, now _

They’ve made the rookie mistake of returning to the cistern, returning to the enemy’s home grounds, but where the fuck else are they gonna go? Everything is dark and smells terrible and is, generally, absolutely terrifying, but like, at least they’re together, at least they weren’t so stupid as to let Bill or anyone else go in alone.

They’re doing pretty well, honestly, despite the lies and failures, and it’s all desperation plays but maybe one of those will work eventually, right? Richie is honestly feeling pretty confident — or maybe just delusional on account of the stress — when the fucking sloppy bitch of a clown stops him mid-word. _ Total asshole move_. And pretty cowardly, too. But as much as Richie wants to stay in that moment of roasting Pennywise, it’s got one up on him. There’s noise and screaming and light, bright-blinding light — and he can’t stop the guy.

It knows his _ dirty fucking secret _ after all. 

And then — and _ then_, even that should reasonably be the end of it — Richie opens his eyes again and he sees, because Eddie has fucking _speared _ the clown like some sort of totally badass Spartan dude in _ 300_. There’s yelling and loud noises and the creature is weaving all around and shrinking like it’s really been hurt, and honestly Richie is too stunned to process anything, but there’s something blooming in his chest like hope, and then —

And then — (_ he definitely sees this —_ )

And then of course Eddie — Eds, braver-than-he-thinks-Eddie-Spaghetti — gets skewered instants after his Big Hero Moment.

He’s leaning over Richie all protective-like so his blood gets everywhere,_ every-fucking-where_, but especially it splatters over all of Richie, even on his glasses. He feels like a crime scene. He feels like some horrible episode of Law & Order. He feels like crying his fucking eyes out.

“Eddie?” he says. Like it’s a question. Like there’s a possibility that what he just saw and heard and _ felt _ didn’t happen, like Eddie is gonna get up and say “Hey dickhead, what the fuck do you want?” because Richie’s being annoying again and they can’t get through a single conversation with insulting each other. 

It’s possible that Eddie dying gives them the secret to defeating Pennywise. 

It’s possible but Richie can’t be sure because everything in front of his eyes is fundamentally overwhelming and like, surely they could’ve fucking figured it out without Eddie being _ fucking impaled_. 

All of those things definitely happen and they definitely are real, but then there’s a moment where everything and everyone freezes; and then there are lips against his. Dry and dirty lips. Not romantic at-fucking-_all. _

For the second time, Richie opens his eyes. 

“Oh my fucking god,” Eddie says, which is both a totally stupid and totally great first thing to hear when time un-sticks. “Richie? Did it work? Like with Beverly — ”

_ Shut the fuck up_, Richie thinks, and he pulls the idiotic, obnoxious, _love of his life_ away from the evil clown monster who helped him hate himself for so long, because he already _ saw _ this, he _ knows _ how it’s gonna play out and _ fuck that_. 

Richie still kinda hates himself, but Eddie is laughing joyously and saying, “Oh my god, Rich, did I just save your fucking life? I think I did, asshole! You totally owe me one!” like he didn’t just kiss Richie _ on the mouth_, and like there isn’t some sort of crazy shapeshifter demon right behind them with spikes as sharp as knives and who could impale any one of them — _again? —_ at any moment. 

“Fuck,” Richie says. “Yeah, I’m okay, Eds. And I think I know what to do —” _ I think you told me — I guess I was in the Deadlights and I saw things —_

“Yippee ki-yay, mother fucker!” he hollers, just like he originally meant to, and Eddie is still gripping him by the shirt, and Eddie is laughing with his face pressed up against Richie’s chest, and Eddie is only bleeding a little instead of slowly fucking dying, and they are totally gonna _ kill this fucking clown. _

_ Losers stick together_, Richie thinks, and it’s easy to believe when Eddie pulls him up, when Beverly grins at him, when everyone laughs at his terrible desperate jokes, when Eddie keeps holding onto his sleeve like he just can’t bear to let go. 

“Hey,” Richie says, and definitely whatever he says is gonna sound totally crazy, but these are the only people in the world who might actually, genuinely hear him out anyway, so like — “I know how to kill it, I know how to totally fuck that bastard _ up —_” He absolutely completely still wants to vomit but Eddie is pulling him along, tugging him forward, and Jesus-fucking-Christ, they’re going to do this, aren’t they? “I saw — things — in the lights, like Bev did, and Eddie said —”

“If I said it, it has to be right,” Eddie says. “Admit it wasn’t your idea, asshole, it was all mine —”

“It was a _ hallucination_, you dick — and you don’t even know what it _ was —_” 

Eddie isn’t _ fucking letting go_. What does that mean? _ What the hell does that mean? _ Maybe the touches between them weren’t wrong. Maybe the hope that he’s always held onto in his heart isn’t evil or bad at all. The clown isn’t a real clown, it’s a creepy fucking spider alien, so maybe it’s been wrong about lots of things. Realistically it definitely has been —

“Richie!” everyone’s yelling his fucking name. Everyone always wants a piece of him. But for the Losers — _fuck!_ Maybe he’ll give a piece or two of himself up willingly. Maybe they know his name and actually know what he is, and they want him anyway.

“Yeah, Eds,” Richie says, dazedly. “Right, look, I said I know how to kill it, and I do. But it’ll take all of us, so listen up, assholes —” 

And the thing is, they _ do_.

They listen. They stay together, because that’s what friends are for, or whatever — and Eddie still hasn’t let go. Richie clutches back, just as tightly, ‘cause that’s what it’ll take to beat this thing and get out, to beat this thing and _ live —_

Well. Richie _ wants _ that chance; that hope; that — life. More than anything else he wants it; so he and his friends are gonna _ get it. _

He’ll remember _that_ forever, clown bitches be _ damned. _

_ They’re stumbling away from the Neibolt house and Richie says, “Hey, Eds—” and Eddie says, “Don’t call me that,” and something — _

_ something is blooming in his chest; something is taking root, growing out of everything that came before, good and bad and in-between. _

_ He remembers summer afternoons that he’d long since lost, now; the slick of sweat and the heat of doubt and guilt, the churn of his stomach — and he remembers the love, the stupid inevitable _ love _ that comes with time and knowing someone, and he —_

_ clings to it. He clings to Eddie, and it’s alright, because Eddie is clinging back, Eddie hasn’t let go of Richie since he saved him, since he brought Richie back down to earth with his — _

_ with his love. _

_ Well, Richie thinks. Guess that’s _ that. 

**Author's Note:**

> For better or worse – this is the one of the fics I've written that has drawn on my own experiences the most, and like, IDK, I keep trying and failing to come up with something to say here that doesn't sound like an "It Gets Better" vid circa 2010, lol. I guess, just...I know how massively uncomfortable everything can feel, but there is nothing wrong with our gay selves, and there is nothing wrong with our gay feelings. ♥ 


End file.
